Page 25 of The Truth About Dukes
“You had a reason for this disclosure?” For himself, Robert didn’t care if Nathaniel’s in-laws were privy to the whole sordid Rothmere family tale, but Constance’s privacy mattered. She had been so young and so upset. So alone.
She stepped out onto the terrace, and Robert followed her.
“I wanted the truth known on my terms,” she said. “Quinn will pry into your family’s past. There aren’t that many private respites in the West Riding. He will recognize the name of the facility where you…stayed.”
Where Robert had been imprisoned. “There are more asylums, spas, and walled estates out there than you think. Some for females, some for consumptives, some for the violently insane. My father researched them all, and I have read his diaries.”
“Heresearchedthem?”
“Not pleasant reading, but enlightening. To the old duke’s credit, he sought a facility that purported to treat the falling sickness and other mental disorders, not merely warehouse cast-off relations. My malady has no cure, of course, but one cannot blame even a rotten father for hoping.”
Lady Constance scowled at him. “You are more forgiving than I will ever be. He had you declareddead, he deceived your family and all of society, committed fraud upon the Crown. If he were still alive, would you yet be in Soames’s institution, playing your violin and reading holey newspapers?”
How ferocious she was. “You would recall that.”
“As if week-old articles about York’s latest society ball could upset anybody’s humors. Walk with me to the orchard.”
Across the terrace, two new footmen were setting up the noon meal, aided by a very young kitchen maid. Staff generally did not like employers hovering, and new staff were probably even more self-conscious.
“I have not been to the orchard in years.” Robert inventoried his reaction to this prospect, and found dread, anxiety, and resentment. Next to those predictable nuisances was a growing impatience with his own limitations. “I might well fail to complete the journey.”
“This time you might not, but eventually, you will.” Lady Constance marched to the end of the garden where the door in the wall had once upon a time loomed in Robert’s mind like a portal to the edge of the world.
She kept right on going, and once again, he followed her. Months ago, on a foggy autumn morning, he’d begun experimenting with what lay beyond the garden door, navigating as far as the river. He left the garden only when the mist was so heavy as to obscure anything like a horizon. The thicker the fog, the better he liked it.
A world where he could see only a dozen feet ahead—and could not be seen himself beyond those dozen feet—had suited him splendidly. This sunny spring day, with damned birds chirping and an arrogant hare loping off toward the river, had no appeal at all.
“Come,” Lady Constance said, extending her hand. “We will speak of the project you invited me here to discuss.”
Robert winged his elbow at her—that was the conventional gesture offering escort, if memory served—but she instead took his hand in hers, her grip warm and firm.
“We have missed the cherry blossoms,” she said. “But the plums should be in their glory. Tell me of your project.”
Constance was humoring him, jollying him into taking the first few steps on the path to the walled orchard. Robert knew it, she knew it. He went with her anyway, because he had at least as much right to be on that path as the wretched hare did.
Make small talk. Distract yourself.“I would rather return to the garden. We can discuss the project there.”
“I would rather wear breeches. I often do, when I paint. Skirts get in the way.”
Picturing Constance Wentworth in breeches was, indeed, a distraction. “I have decided that if I’m to be the Duke of Rothhaven, I must behave as a duke. I must look like a duke, speak like a duke.”
“Quack like a duke?”
“Don’t be impertinent.” He failed utterly to suppress a smile. “I can no longer indulge my eccentricities, confident in the knowledge that my brother will carry on in the ducal role. A duke sits for the occasional portrait.”
The path angled up slightly, which slowed Constance not one bit. “You’d like me to recommend a portraitist for you? Somebody who will mind his own business and not turn your nose purple?”
“No, thank you. I do not need a recommendation.”
“Then you’d like me to confirm the choice of portraitist you’ve already made. Offer reassurances that he—for only the male gender is suited to rendering portraits, of course—is passably competent.”
Constance picked up the pace as they climbed, and Robert had the sense she was annoyed. He did not turn loose of her hand, but rather, lengthened his stride to keep pace with her. She was by no means a tall woman.
“Passably competent will not do. This portrait must convey to the world that I am in every way appropriate to execute the duties of my station.” The traveling coach had been sent into York for a complete refurbishment for the same reason.
Appearances mattered.
“Youarecompetent to execute the duties of your station,” her ladyship retorted. “Let us not belabor the obvious. That you have handsome features, a compelling gaze, and a fine masculine figure means any half-skilled apprentice could fashion a decent likeness of you.”
